


senpai troubles

by owlinaminor



Series: gay awakenings with goshiki [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: GAY AWAKENINGS, M/M, crushes on senpai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Um, senpai?” Tsutomu wonders.  “What does gay mean?”</p><p>Shirabu stares at him for another long moment, unblinking – then leans back against the bench and tilts his face up to the ceiling.</p><p>“Nope,” he declares, to nobody in particular.  “I am not dealing with this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	senpai troubles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinypersonhotel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypersonhotel/gifts).



> the prompt i got was "ANY SHIRATORI PAIRING POLY OR NOT TBH", and i thought, oh, well, it would be fun to write ushiten and minor pairings with some other shiratorizawa shenanigans from goshiki's pov. somehow, that turned into the story of goshiki's gay awakening, with a side of ushiten. i hope it's enjoyable anyway.
> 
> thanks goes to [becky](http://dicaeopolis.tumblr.com/) for some rather enthusiastic beta'ing.

Goshiki Tsutomu is the only first-year starter at Shiratorizawa.

Now, normally, this is a good thing.  He has six incredible senpai to ask for advice - how to spike better, or receive better, or not fail Japanese literature better.  (They usually only have good answers for the first two - once, Tsutomu had asked Ushijima for advice on how to do close-reading, and he’d simply stared blankly, then said, “Wouldn’t you just hold the book closer to your face?”  But the ability to ask is still nice.)  

He has six incredible senpai who he can watch on the court, figure out how to play just like.  (They aren’t always the most supportive when he’s trying new things - once, he attempted a jump serve, slipped on a stray volleyball, and fell on his face, and Semi laughed at him for a full two minutes before getting the coach.  But he did, eventually, get the coach, which, Tsutomu thinks, is something.)  

He has six incredible senpai who are some of the most popular guys at school, who make him look cool when they say hi to him in the hallways. (Once, on his way back from lunch, Tsutomu ran into Tendou, who shouted, “Hey, nice job at practice yesterday!  You’re killing it out there, Tsutomu-kun!  Stay cool and don’t tell Wakatoshi-kun I accidentally dropped his volleyball shorts in the locker room shower!”  Half of the girls in the hallway immediately turned and stared.  Tsutomu had no idea how to talk to them, of course, but the _opportunity_ … The opportunity was everything.)

And, most importantly of all - Tsutomu has six incredible senpai who are going to help him become the best ace Shiratorizawa has ever seen.

So, yeah, ninety-four percent of the time, Tsutomu loves being the only first-year.  It gets him attention, and advice, and endless daydreams about how great he’ll be when he’s a third-year.

The other six percent of the time, though … In the other six percent, there are problems.  Six problems, to be precise.  Six problems named Ushijima, Ohira, Tendou, Yamagata, Kawanishi, and Shirabu.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the other starters.  Tsutomu _wishes_ there was something wrong with the other starters.  He watches them during practice, trying to pick out flaws - but all he can see is the line of Ushijima’s arm as he hits a toss, the curve of Tendou’s smile when he blocks a spike, the bend of Yamagata’s thighs when he crouches for a receive.  The drip of sweat down their faces, the stretches of their limbs during warm-up, the planes of their backs when they run.  Tsutomu watches his teammates - and they’re more fascinating than any movie, more beautiful than any painting, more compelling than any haiku.  They’re like gods of the court, moving mountains and parting oceans.  Tsutomu watches, and thinks that they could conquer the world - that the world would be better, ruled by Shiratorizawa.

And Tsutomu wants - he doesn’t know what he wants.  He wants to run his fingers through Tendou’s hair, he wants to feel the strength in Ohira’s arms, he wants to taste Shirabu’s smirk.  He wants to touch, he wants to know, he wants to _learn_ \- _fuck,_ he wants to _concentrate during practice._

Tsutomu can’t remember when this problem started - when he first looked at one of his teammates, and looked and looked and looked and couldn’t stop looking.  He can’t remember when it started, but he thinks it’s getting worse.  Six percent became twelve, then twenty-four, forty-eight - it’s growing exponentially, and soon, Tsutomu’s terrified that he’ll get kicked onto the bench for watching his captain’s ass when he’s supposed to be watching the ball.  Because surely someone must notice, right?  He’s never been a very subtle person - he can’t keep secrets, or make innuendos, or get through conversations with his parents without telling them exactly what he wants.  Someone else on the team must be watching him watching his team - laughing at him, probably, and waiting for the perfect moment to strike him down.  Tsutomu lives in fear of being expelled, when he isn’t living in agony over how incredible his teammates are in _literally every way._

It's really not surprising that, one day, he snaps.

Or, to be more accurate, he _sighs_.  He’s sitting on the sidelines with Shirabu, watching the third-years play a three-on-three match (it’s something they’ve done since their first year, he thinks – although he could be wrong, since he spent most of that explanation wondering if the hair on Ohira’s legs was really as soft and smooth as it looked.)  He’s sitting there, watching as intently as he wishes he couldn’t, when Ushijima spikes – and Yamagata dives to get it, his body stretching like an elastic band, tight and sinewy and perfectly in control – and Tsutomu can’t help it.  A sigh expels from him like hot gas from a balloon.

Shirabu turns and stares.

“What the hell was that?” he asks.

A hundred answers run through Tsutomu’s mind at once.   _I was tired,_ he could say.  Or, _I was thinking about how hard math is._ Or, _I just realized I forgot to bring deodorant._

But, of course, Tsutomu doesn’t do the smart thing.  He never does the smart thing.  He gestures helplessly at the court, and says, “I was watching … Watching the, um …”

“Yamagata-san’s receive,” Shirabu finishes for him.

Tsutomu nods.  Shirabu keeps watching him – eyes narrowing, like when he sizes up an opposing team’s setter, figures out precisely how to defeat them.

It’s kind-of terrifying, but Tsutomu likes looking at it.   _Why does he like looking at it._  He scoots down the bench a little bit.

Tsutomu keeps waiting for Shirabu to say something, but he doesn’t.  He just keeps watching – watching, watching, calculating.  Tsutomu thinks his heart is trying to sprint out of his chest and across the gym.

“Shirabu-senpai?” he finally asks, tentative.

“Goshiki,” Shirabu says.

“Yeah?”

“How gay _are_ you?”

That’s … not the question Tsutomu was expecting.

He wasn’t expecting a question at all, actually – he was waiting for an angry reprimand, a threat to cut out his staring or Shirabu would go to the coach, or maybe a lecture about how dumb and disgusting he is.  He wasn’t waiting for a question – especially not one with words he doesn’t even know in it.

“Um, senpai?” Tsutomu wonders.  “What does gay mean?”

Shirabu stares at him for another long moment, unblinking – then leans back against the bench and tilts his face up to the ceiling.

“Nope,” he declares, to nobody in particular.  “I am _not_ dealing with this.”

Tsutomu looks up at the ceiling, too, hoping that maybe the definition for _gay_ is written up there somewhere.  All he sees is a bunch of beams, and an old volleyball that got stuck up there two years ago when someone pissed Ushijima off during a practice match, according to Tendou.

“Then, um … who _is_ dealing with this?”

Shirabu just shakes his head.

After a minute or so (which is quite possibly the longest and most confusing minute of Tsutomu’s life), Shirabu stands up, takes a couple of steps forward, and shouts, “Ohira-san!”

Ohira, gathering some stray volleyballs from the back of the court, looks up.  “Yeah?”

Shirabu indicates Tsutomu with his right thumb.  “You need to talk to this one.  Soon.”

Ohira examines Tsutomu, his gaze slow and generous and oddly warm, then nods.

This only increases Tsutomu’s confusion.

* * *

“Goshiki,” Ohira says.

Ohira is tall.  Broad.  Stern.  He leads the team with soft smiles, encouraging high-fives, shouts of “don’t mind!” when it seems like Coach Washijo is ready to have someone’s head.  Yet at the same time, in the same matches, he spikes and blocks and receives  better than any opponents they face – like anyone at Shiratorizawa, like everyone at Shiratorizawa, he’s downright terrifying when he puts his mind to something.

Tsutomu has never had a conversation with him like this – one on one, in the locker room after they’ve finished cleaning up the gym.  He doesn’t know if he’s about to learn the secrets of life or about to be thrown out of the school forever.  It could be one thing or the other, he thinks, but nothing in between.

“Yes, senpai.”  Tsutomu bows – maybe, if he’s respectful, his punishment will be less severe.  He could only be suspended, instead of expelled.

“What – what’re you doing?” Ohira asks, sounding mildly amused.  “Get up.”

Tsutomu gets up.  He swipes at the bangs covering his eyes – they fall back into place almost immediately.

“Shirabu told me you asked him what _gay_ means,” Ohira says.

Tsutomu feels his face go bright strawberry pink.  “Um – no!  I mean, yes!  I mean, maybe!  I mean … what does it mean?”

Ohira laughs and sits down on the bench in the middle of the room.  He pats the space next to him.  Tsutomu eyes it for a moment, decides there probably isn’t a trap in place, then joins his senpai.

“Gay.” Ohira says the word as though it’s an important title – important like volleyball, or Shiratorizawa.  “A person who’s gay is attracted to people of the same gender as they are.”

_Oh._

Suddenly, everything makes sense.  The watching, the wanting, the – the _longing,_ it’s all because Tsutomu is _gay._  And, apparently, there’s a lot of _gay_ in him.  Enough to be attracted to the rest of his team.

 _Attracted_ , Tsutomu thinks.  Like they’re all magnets, and he’s a little metal paperclip, shooting into their electromagnetic fields, like in that experiment he did once in physics.

“So, for example, if I, a guy, had romantic and or sexual feelings – or both – for another guy, I could call myself gay,” Ohira goes on.

“Do you?” Tsutomu asks.  And then, realizing what he said, he covers his mouth with his hands, eyes opening wide.  “I – I mean –”

Luckily, Ohira just chuckles.  He has a nice laugh – deep and warm, like water bubbling up from underneath the ground in a mountain hot spring.  And, wow, Tsutomu is _gay._

“I’m bisexual, actually,” Ohira says.  “That means I’m attracted to both people the same gender as I am and people of different genders.”

Tsutomu spends a moment trying to wrap his head around this.  Failing, he asks, “Wait, there are more than two genders?  And there are more ... more things than gay and straight?”

“They’re called sexualities.  Or orientations.  And yeah, there are spectrums.  You should probably familiarize yourself with them a bit – most of the people on our team aren’t straight.”  Ohira reaches into his backpack, propped up against the bench, and rummages in the front pocket until he finds a blank scrap of paper and a pen.  He scribbles a few things down on the paper, then hands it to Tsutomu.

“Here,” he says.  “I’ve written down a few websites you can look at.  And my email, if you want to ask more questions.”

Tsutomu takes it, holds it reverently.  He wants to express, somehow, the gratitude he feels for Ohira’s explanation – but he was never very good at literature, and a shout of “nice receive!” doesn’t really feel appropriate.

He settles for holding up his hand for a high-five and exclaiming, “Thank you!”

Ohira slaps it with the perfect amount of force (not so strong it hurt, but not so weak it was lame), then swings his backpack onto his back and heads out.

“See you tomorrow!”

“Yeah!” Tsutomu shouts back.

* * *

That night, Tsutomu does research.

He has homework, he definitely _has_ homework, but it lies abandoned in his backpack, far less important than discovering the complexities of _orientation_ and _gender._  The websites Ohira gave him are full of terms and definitions, explanations for feelings that he never knew existed.  He reads until he’s read everything on those sites, then decides that’s not enough – he needs to know _more._  He spent fourteen years of his life knowing nothing about this stuff.  That’s a lot of time to make up for.

Tsutomu opens up a new window and types “gay” into the search bar.  Some of the results are more definitions, but some of them are … definitely not definitions.  Unless they’re graphic pictorial definitions, maybe.

 _Really_ graphic pictorial definitions.

Tsutomu closes his eyes, hoping that’ll make the pictures go away.  It doesn’t.  He peers at them, trying to figure out what’s happening – he thinks he has one of _those_ , but why is it so big?  And so wet?  And _what_ is that purple thing?

“Tsutomu!” comes a shout from downstairs.

“Yes, ka-san?” Tsutomu replies.  He glances guiltily at the screen.  His mother probably – no, absolutely – would not want to know he borrowed her laptop to look at this … whatever this is.

“I need my computer back!  Are you done doing homework on it?”

It suddenly occurs to Tsutomu that he was supposed to look up vocabulary words for his literature class.

“Yes!” he calls down.

“Good!  Bring it down here.”

Tsutomu looks back at the website.  It draws him in, with its strange proportions and its stranger colors – but then, he thinks about what might happen if his mom found out he was looking at this.  Or, worse, what might happen if the computer got a virus, and was stuck on this page forever.  Or, worst of all, if he somehow _downloaded_ some …

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the computer.  And then, he closes all his tabs, deletes his history, and closes the laptop.

* * *

Tsutomu gives up on internet research.

Instead, he resorts to asking questions.  A lot of questions.   _Why are people gay?_ and _What are gay people like?_ and _Why are guys so attractive?_ and _How is anyone_ not _gay when guys are so attractive?_

Ohira answers most of his questions for the first day or so, but Tsutomu’s mind is a river barreling down the mountain at one thousand kilometers per hour, and Ohira has a team to keep track of and difficult classes to worry about – Tsutomu realizes that bothering him exclusively is just rude.  Tsutomu next tries directing his questions to the team at large, but then Coach Washijo starts glaring at him, which shuts him up pretty quickly.

But he still has to _ask_ – he’s kept these feelings in for _months_ , possibly _longer_ , and he can’t just stop talking about something once he’s started.  Eventually, he starts to put the brunt of his questions on Shirabu – he’s only a second year, he doesn’t have as much homework as some of the others, and he was the one who first called Tsutomu gay so, by that logic, he must know something about the concept.

And, after two weeks of demands, cajoles, and thinly veiled interrogations, Shirabu accepts his role.  (Getting people to give in – that’s one of Tsutomu’s strengths.  He’s not as good at it as Ushijima, who slams through two-man blocks as though they’re nothing but air, but he’s working on it.)

They’re sitting on the side of the gym, watching a third year three-on-three again.  And Tsutomu’s watching arms today – the pulling of biceps, the curling of wrists, the rolling of shoulders.  He thought it might be fun to try to decide which of his senpai has the best arms.  It’s a lot more challenging than he thought.

“Shirabu, what do you think?” he asks, turning to the setter.  “Who has the best arms?  Ushijima’s the strongest, but Tendou is really, I don’t know, _stretchy_ , or something, and Ohira’s strong, too, and –”

“ _God,_ ” Shirabu groans.  He leans back and makes as if to cover his ears, but instead just closes his eyes and mouths something – a prayer, maybe.

Tsutomu just keeps going.  “Yamagata’s definitely got good legs, but his arms aren’t bad, either – aren’t bad _at all –_ and –”

“Okay,” Shirabu says.  “Alright.  I get it.   _Please_ shut up.”

Tsutomu grins and inches closer on the bench.  “ _What_ do you get?”

“Why you’re so …” Shibaru waves his hand around in the air, as though to indicate how weird and obsessive Tsutomu is.  “It’s like.  I don’t know.  Sometimes Semi starts lecturing me about the right way to toss or some shit, and I just want to push him up against a wall and bite the sarcasm out of his stupid mouth.”  Shirabu takes a swig of his water bottle, then squeezes it, hard.

Tsutomu stares at him – distracted out of watching the three-on-three game, a state he hadn’t previously thought possible.  “That’s … the same thing?” he wonders.

Shirabu shrugs.  “Yeah, kind-of.”  He pauses, then adds, “I don’t get what you see in Ushijima, though.”

“What?  What do I see in him?”

“Why you find him attractive,” Shirabu elaborates.  “Like, Tendou’s hot in a wild, ridiculous kind-of way, Ohira’s got this hot grandpa kind of thing going on, Semi metaphorically kicks me in the balls on a daily basis, but Ushijima?  He’s just, like, a tree with legs.”

“He’s so powerful, though,” Tsutomu says, wistfully.  “I want to beat him on the court, obviously, but I also want to sit and watch movies with him.  I feel like he’d give good hugs.”

Tsutomu closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like to receive a hug from his captain.  It would be warm, he thinks.  And comforting.  Like hugging a patch of sunlight.

Tsutomu opens his eyes to find Shirabu staring at him as though he’d just said that the team was going to lose their next practice match.

“What?” he asks, defensive.  “I thought we were sharing fantasies!”

“Not _those_ kinds of fantasies,” Shirabu replies.

“Oh.”

Shirabu takes another drink from his water bottle.  “You’re so weird, Goshiki.”

“Thanks!”

“It’s not a compliment.”  The setter stands up, smooths out his uniform.  He watches the court – the practice match is almost over.  Ushijima just has to hit one more good spike.  “Anyway, it’s not like you’d have a chance in hell with him.  Tendou’s got that shit locked down.”

“What, really?”  Tsutomu isn’t aware of anyone having Ushijima locked down.  Isn’t he too strong to be kept prisoner?  Handcuffs definitely wouldn’t work on him.

“Oh, yeah.  He lets Tendou call him by his first name.  That’s something special,” Shirabu says, heading for the court.

Goshiki jumps to his feet and leaps after his senpai.  “But Tendou calls all of us by our first names!”

“Not all of us are Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

On the court, Ushijima hits a cross, sending the ball cleanly to the back right corner of the court.  Yamagata dives for it, but can’t even hope to be successful – the last point goes to Ushijima’s side, as it almost always does.

“Yeah, Wakatoshi!” Tendou hollers.  And then, as though to prove Shirabu’s point, he crosses the court, slaps Ushijima on the ass as naturally as though he’s slapping a high five, and heads for his water bottle.

Far from getting mad, Ushijima’s face brightens with the smallest of smiles.

Tsutomu’s mouth drops open.

Shirabu just rolls his eyes and stalks towards the net, yelling for someone to toss him a ball already.

* * *

“I don’t believe you,” Tsutomu whispers.

Shirabu sighs, not looking away from the bus window.

Tsutomu pokes him in the shoulder – right where he pulled a muscle in practice two days before.

Shirabu yelps, yanks his headphones out of his ears, and turns to glare at his kouhai, eyes flashing like an electrical storm.  Any other first-year would swiftly move to the other side of the bus, but Tsutomu has been talking to Tendou a lot recently, and Tendou says that Shirabu isn’t as scary as he wants people to think he is (“all beak and no bite,” whatever that means), so Tsutomu just grins.

“ _What,_ ” Shirabu demands.

“I don’t believe you,” Tsutomu repeats.

“About _what._ ”

“Ushijima-senpai and Tendou-senpai.  I don’t think they’re dating.”

“They are.”  Shirabu returns one headphone to his left ear, then starts to turn away again.

“But how do you know?” Tsutomu presses him.

“I just do.”

“Have you ever seen them … seen them …” Tsutomu looks around furtively, checks that nobody else is watching his seat, then whispers, “ _hug_?”

Shirabu bursts out laughing.

Tsutomu watches, eyes slowly narrowing, until his senpai wipes his eyes, leans back in his seat, and grins.  “Oh, I’m sure they do a lot more than that.”

“But do they do _that_?”

“Do they do what?”

“ _That._ ”  Tsutomu points at the back of the bus.  Tendou and Semi are sharing a seat, sitting with their heads against the lower back part, their torsos almost entirely lying along the bottom part, and their legs in the air.  Tendou’s head is pillowed on Semi’s shoulder, and the two of them are talking quietly together, or maybe laughing at something.  Upon closer inspection, Tsutomu can see that their hands are linked together.  He’s not sure how Shirabu failed to notice this before – he hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from them for the past half hour.  His heart aches, watching – like he practiced too hard and strained a muscle, only in a completely new part of the body

Tsutomu follows Shirabu’s gaze as he stares at the two third-years, then turns to look for their captain – sitting at the front with his eyes closed and headphones on, the same thing he always does before a game.

“Okay, well – there’ll be something different going on on the way back,” Shirabu says – but he doesn’t sound as confident as he did before.

“Are you sure?” Tsutomu challenges.

Shirabu eyes his kouhai for a long moment.  His expression hardens then, abruptly, changes into a grin.

“A wager,” he says.  “By the end of this trip, we’ll know for sure just who’s dating who.  If it’s Tendou and Semi, I’ll teach you how to do that cool thing with the two volleyballs.”

 _“That cool thing with the two volleyballs,”_ Tsutomu repeats, eyes wide.  He’s been trying to get Shirabu to teach it to him for _ages._

“And if it’s Tendou and Ushijima, you have to promise never to bother me with your gay feelings ever again.”

It’s probably a bad idea to say yes, but – Tsutomu’s not very good at saying no to his teammates.  (That’s how he ends up staying late to help sweep the gym after almost every practice.)  And, well, the promise of _that cool thing with the two volleyballs …_

“Okay,” he says.

“Great.  Now, please shut up.”  Shirabu turns back to the window, and Tsutomu settles in for a long bus ride of senpai-watching.

* * *

Interhigh is everything Tsutomu had dreamed it would be, and more.

He’d gone to tournaments in junior high, even gotten pretty far – he hadn’t been recruited to Shiratorizawa for nothing – but nothing could prepare him for this.  Everything was so big, the gym and the stands and even the bathrooms constructed on a grand scale, as though this was a tournament hall for giants.

“Are that many people really going to come see us play?” Tsutomu asks Yamagata as they do an early warm-up, staring up into the stands above the court where they’re set to play their first match.

Yamagata grins in response.

“Are you kidding?” Tendou exclaims.  “They’ll need two of those.  Maybe even three, now that Wakatoshi-kun’s a third-year.”

Ushijima doesn’t turn at the sound of his name – just hits the spike Shirabu sent him, clean into the back right corner of the opposite court.

“Shiratorizawa!  Shiratorizawa!” Tendou chants.  He turns to Tsutomu, holding up his hand for a high five.

Tsutomu slaps it as hard as he can.

He worries, in the aftermath, that maybe that was too hard – Tendou’s hand is now as red as his hair – but he just laughs and says, “You’re gonna kick ass, kid.”

And, incredibly, gloriously, predictably, they do.

At first, Tsutomu thinks Tendou was wrong – there’s only one stand section of spectators during their first match.  But that match goes quickly, the next even quicker (two sets, a few of Ushijima’s spikes, and no other team can stand a chance), and soon there are two full sections, with people spilling out the sides and standing at the front.  Their cheers are the loudest in the stadium.   _Shiratorizawa, Shiratorizawa, Shiratorizawa_ – it stops sounding like a name and becomes a roar, a thunderstorm, a heartbeat.

They cheer when Ushijima scores, when Tendou blocks, when Yamagata receives - and when Tsutomu spikes.  The first time it happens, he leaps half a meter in the air, yelling in excitement.  Ohira has to put a hand on his shoulder to get him to calm down.

The second- and third-years are used to this, Tsutomu realizes.  They’re used to having paths cleared when they walk through hallways, used to watching teams run off the court when it’s their turn to warm up, used to seeing people look at them with this stare that’s part awe, part fear.  Tsutomu is the exact opposite of used to this.  He doesn’t think he’ll ever _get_ used to this.

He could get used to _this_ , though - the feeling of winning.  The roar of the crowd when he scores a point.  The grins on his teammates’ faces when they leave the court.

He could get used to it, except for one small problem: he completely forgets about his and Shirabu’s bet.

Or, he forgets about it until the second set of the quarterfinals, when Tendou slaps Ushijima on the back after a particularly impressive spike (a straight that slammed through three blockers.)  Tendou’s arm lingers for a moment around Ushijima’s shoulders, and Shirabu looks right at Tsutomu, raises one eyebrow.

At first, Tsutomu’s just ridiculously jealous - he’s never been able to raise just one - but then, he remembers.  He mentally shouts all of the expletives he knows (which is not that many, but still a satisfying exercise), then resolves to watch the third-years carefully during the next two matches.

He watches, but … it’s hard.  It’s so hard.  Tendou calls everyone by their first names, cheers at every point scored, high-fives for every impressive feat.  Semi berates Tendou for missing spikes or shouting too loudly from the sidelines - but then, he does the same thing to Shirabu.  Ushijima sometimes gives Tendou this nod of understanding, or maybe reassurance - but then, he does the same thing to Ohira.  Tsutomo can barely concentrate on the game, he’s so busy watching for signs, clues, _anything_ that might betray that incomprehensible thing Ohira called romantic attraction.

_Shirabu made it sound so obvious.  Like someone’s going to … hug, or something, right in the middle of the court.  But there’s no way that could happen.  Right?_

* * *

The finals are over almost before Tsutomu realizes it.  One receive, one set, one spike, and the other team - some team with green and white uniforms, Tsutomu doesn’t remember their name - is trudging off the court, heads hung low.

There’s little ceremony from their end, too - some high fives, some cheering, but their bleachers full of spectators are emptying almost before Ushijima scores the last point.  Tsutomu follows, almost in a daze, as his team gathers their stuff and heads for the locker room.

“This means we’re going to nationals, right?” he asks Shirabu as they file through the hallway.

Shirabu looks at him as though he just tried to spike a free ball.  “Of course.  We always go to nationals.”

“Oh.”  Tsutomu looks at the third-years - strong, sure, like gods in a stadium of mere men - and, well, yeah.  Of course.  Of course they always go to nationals.

He still can’t quite make himself believe it, though, as he packs up his stuff and heads to the bus.  It still feels almost like a dream, or like a story he wrote about his future five years ago - _I’ll join the most powerful team in the prefecture, and go to nationals my first year._  He tries to make himself believe it - tries to imagine how big the Tokyo stadium will be, how many people will cheer -

Tsutomu’s imagining the precise color of the Tokyo stadium bathrooms when Coach Washijo tells him to go back to the locker room - he forgot to grab the ice box.

“What?” he asks.

“Ice box,” Shirabu repeats.  “Yellow cooler?  Has ice in it?  Which is probably melted now?”

“Right,” Tsutomu says.  He gets up, heads off the bus, lingers next to the door.  “Um.  Where was the locker room?”

Shirabu sighs, rolls his eyes up to the ceiling - he really likes ceilings, Tsutomu’s not sure why - then says, “I’ll go with you.”

They head to the locker room in silence, navigating through the emptying stadium - or, well, Shirabu navigates, and Tsutomu tries not to get lost a few paces behind him.  Finally, after what seems like much longer than it took them to get to the bus earlier, they stop in front of a door with a paper sign reading, _Shiratorizawa._

“Alright,” Shirabu says, gesturing to the door.  “Go ahead.  Get your ice box.”

Tsutomu steps past him, opens the door, and -

Holy shit.  Holy _shit._

Ushijima and Tendou are kissing each other!  On the face!  And not just that, their hands are all over each other’s bodies, and their uniforms are all mussed up, and Ushijima’s hair is sticking up in weird places, and, and, and -

There’s a high-pitched squeaking noise coming from somewhere.  It takes Tsutomu a moment to realize that it’s him.

And then, he hears laughter from behind him - hysterical laughter, maniacal laughter, like those hyenas in that one weird American movie with the lions.  It’s Shirabu, Tsutomu realizes, leaning on a nearby post for support.

He raises one shaky hand to point at Tsutomu, then says, through his cackles, “You fucking _idiot._  I _told_ you I was sure.”

“You …”  Tsutomu looks at Shirabu, then back to Ushijima and Tendou, then back to Shirabu, then back to Ushijima and Tendou again.  There are about a million questions sprinting through his head like runners at the end of a marathon, but, for some reason, the one his brain decides to go with is:

“Are you guys … _gay_?”

And then, Tendou starts laughing.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Ushijima says.  “It’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

Tsutomu breathes for what might be the first time in a full minute.  He has such a good captain.

“I’m not, I don’t think,” Ushijima continues.  He looks at Tendou, who shrugs, still laughing.  “I mean, I’m not really a guy, so …”

“ _What_?”

Tsutomu has a good captain.  And a confusing captain.  And a … not a guy captain?

Ushijima nods.  “I’m agender.  I think that’s the word for it.  And Tendou, you’re …”  Tendou waves his hand in the air vaguely.  “Pansexual?  Asexual?  Somewhere in between.”

“I’m something,” Tendou says.  “Not really sure what.  Don’t really care.”

Tsutomu opens his mouth.  Closes it.  Opens it again.

“You came back for this, right?” Ushijima holds up the ice box.  “I’ve got it, don’t worry.  We can all go back to the bus together.”

Tsutomu nods vigorously.  Ushijima and Tendou pull their uniforms back into order, grab their jackets, and head out of the locker room.  Tsutomu and Shirabu (who’s still cackling quietly) follow.

“He should probably talk to Reon again,” Tendou remarks as they go down the hallway.

“He should,” Ushijima agrees.  “Reon’s quite good at that.  Talking.  Explaining.”

“He should go on informational tours,” Tendou says, grinning.

For some reason entirely lost on Tsutomu, this suggestion makes Shirabu laugh even harder.

* * *

The bus is quiet on the ride back.

Most of the team is sleeping - leaning against windows, or against each other.  Ushijima is resting on Tendou’s shoulder, Tendou’s hand lingering on his chest right above his heart.  Even Shirabu is dozing off, his head pillowed on Semi’s shoulder.  It’s quiet, peaceful - the complete opposite of the matches they just played.

But Tsutomu can’t go to sleep.  His heart is racing and his palms are sweating as though he’s still on the court, about to hit a spike.  He can’t stop thinking - about their wins, about his new realizations, about how far he has to go before he can spike like Ushijima.

He’s _going_ to spike like Ushijima, though.  There’s no way he won’t.  Not with his senpai - his six incredible, incredible senpai - to teach him, and to yell at him, and to push him farther.  The bus speeds faster and faster down the highway, past fields and through mountains, but Tsutomu only wants to watch his teammates.

That’s probably a little weird, that he likes to watch them, but … He doesn’t think they mind.  He thinks they understand.  He thinks, for all that they’re gods of the court, they’re a lot like him.

“Shirabu,” he says, reaching forward a seat to poke the setter in the shoulder.

Shirabu startles awake, then turns his head ever so slightly - just enough to glare at Tsutomu.  ‘What.”

“Shirabu,” Tsutomu repeats, wonderingly.  “Our senpai are the coolest senpai in the world.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Shirabu replies.  But he looks around at their team, and Tsutomu can tell his eyes are shining.

**Author's Note:**

> talk shiratorizawa to me ([tumblr](http://officialyachihitoka.tumblr.com/)/[twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor))


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